


Such a Sweet Sensation

by BarlowGirl



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: (hopefully mild but will explain in detail in end notes), Ableist Language, Derek POV, Gym!fic, M/M, Pop music
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-15
Updated: 2013-05-15
Packaged: 2017-12-12 00:11:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/804861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BarlowGirl/pseuds/BarlowGirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s finishing up on the treadmill when he hears it.</p><p>
  <i>You have so many relationships in this life, but only one or two will last.</i>
</p><p>If it weren’t for the fact that he spent the entire summer he was thirteen banned from going into town until he learned to control his shift, Derek is pretty sure that he’d have a few too many teeth right now. But, no, he’s going to be an adult and somebody who’d rather not be hung from a tree and cut in half for viciously murdering a human at the gym, so he’s just going to get out of here as fast as he can without breaking something.</p><p>
  <i>When you get old and start losing your hair, can you tell me who will still care?</i>
</p><p>Or somebody.</p><p>----</p><p>Or: The One Where Derek and Stiles Are Unwilling Gym Buddies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Such a Sweet Sensation

**Author's Note:**

> So [Julie](http://halffizzbin.tumblr.com/) had kind of a crummy day the other day. So, um. I offered to write her a thing. This is that thing. 
> 
> Here’s the ask for context if you’re curious:
> 
>  
> 
> [](http://s476.photobucket.com/user/Laina1312/media/Asks_zps65f73ea1.jpg.html)  
> 
> 
>  
> 
> (Also, disclaimer: I know NOTHING about gyms. I don’t have a car and I chase after 4 year olds for an hour each week. That’s exercise enough for me XD)
> 
> By the way you might be interested in [this link](http://www.cracked.com/article_18490_the-7-most-soul-crushing-series-finales-in-tv-history_p2.html), and [this link](http://capricorn1.co.uk/details.asp?ProductID=9145) and also [this post](http://veritasst.tumblr.com/post/45505850507) (which is a non-explicit porn gif so, you know, click accordingly) and [this post ](http://artthingy.tumblr.com/post/41744582262/love-ridden-i-will-look-at-you-with-the-focus-i). And I jumped off the bridge and [joined tumblr](http://barlowstreet.tumblr.com/), so all of those will be easily found under the tag "gym fic" if the links break.
> 
> Five points to whoever gets the song I'm referencing in the title.

The thing is, Derek kind of hates gyms. They smell like sweat and body odour and way too much rubber. Usually there are about six different music players going at once, more heartbeats and heavy breathing than a goddamn orgy, people try to actually _talk_ to him and for some reason every time he goes, somebody is listening to MMMBop and he ends up with it in his head for days.

Do you know what it’s like to fight for your life with _Hanson_ playing in the back your head?

But. The thing is. Derek would prefer to not spend any time he doesn’t need to hanging around the house where his family died. He’s… well, he’s not ready to let it go yet. He’s just not. But he thinks that pretty soon, maybe when the county stops feeling sorry for him and starts caring about the sad excuse for a building in the middle of the Preserve, he might not fight them too much. He’s not entirely sure on that, but maybe. And in any case, it’s not a place he wants to use as a makeshift gym. The subway station was fine for a while, if a little damp, but then…

Then the squirrels happened. And Derek _really doesn’t want to talk about that, okay?_

His loft is good. It’s dry, there aren’t any holes in the roof, he has a dresser with clothes that don’t smell like mold and mildew and the landlord finally fixed the giant-ass hole in the wall from taking out the old sliding doors – two freaking years after Derek moved in. But it’s good, it’s a good place. It’s the only kind of home he’s had in years.

Except. Except that there is _always_ somebody there when he tries to work out. Isaac needs help with his homework, or Boyd’s junker breaks down again and Derek is the only person he actually knows with any sort of mechanical experience. Or Scott has something to yell at him about – there’s always something that Scott wants to yell at him about – or Stiles is around just being… _Stiles._ Distracting is in his genes, Derek swears. Or, Lydia shows up for no reason and decides to turn his workout into an experiment or sit on his back while he does push-ups so she can lecture him – and seriously, he doesn’t know why he gave her a key. He really doesn’t.

Well. Besides the fact that she told him to and he’s just a little afraid of her. (He’s not stupid. She is a very capable young woman and Derek grew up with Laura Hale as his sister. He’s not one to underestimate somebody like Lydia Martin. He likes his balls intact, thanks.)

There’s nothing run with running, obviously. He likes it as much as the next person who’s been chased out of the burnt shell of his family’s home by people trying to murder him does… but it’s exactly not a complete workout. And he knows he doesn’t _need_ to work out as hard as he does because of how he is, but he likes pushing his body, likes making sure that it works as well as it can, likes the way he can burn off stress during a workout. So he gives up the goose and joins a gym. Lucky for him, it’s a 24 hour gym and he can work out in the middle of the night when nobody’s around. If he times it just right, he can get in not long after the janitor cleans it so everything mostly smells like bleach and cleaners. He can ignore that pretty well, at least, and his body doesn’t let a headache last more than a couple minutes.

He’s finishing up on the treadmill when he hears it.

_You have so many relationships in this life, but only one or two will last._

If it weren’t for the fact that he spent the entire summer he was thirteen banned from going into town until he learned to control his shift, Derek is pretty sure that he’d have a few too many teeth right now. But, no, he’s going to be an adult and somebody who’d rather not be hung from a tree and cut in half for viciously murdering a human at the gym, so he’s just going to get out of here as fast as he can without breaking something.

_When you get old and start losing your hair, can you tell me who will still care?_

Or somebody.

Derek very, very carefully stops the treadmill and heads towards the locker room. Halfway there, he grinds to a stop when a far too familiar smell hits him.

_Plant a seed, plant a flower, plant a rose. You can plant any one of those. Keep planting to find out which one grows._

He nearly growls as he turns on his heel and stalks across the room and that’s just not something he normally does. He has control, but this, this is it. This is his limit. It’s been a good run. Two and a half years, a couple dozen deadly threats, more life-saving moments than he can honestly count, but, nope, the kid’s dead and Derek’s gonna end up cut in half.

Stiles _screeches_ when Derek rips his earbuds out and that, that is almost worth the fact that he’s surely going to be, at the very least, kicked out of this gym. He’s gonna have to drive to Rapture Falls and they’re only open til midnight and the town’s half the size of Beacon Hills. There’s not even a Starbucks. It’s gonna _suck_. But that, that was almost worth it.

“What. The fuck. Is your problem,” Derek says, very slowly, through clenched teeth.

Stiles slaps a hand over his chest, clinging to the elliptical. “ _My_ problem? You almost just killed me!”

“Not yet.” Derek gives the cord of Stiles’ earbuds a tug. “Turn that fucking song off or I will shove this thing so far up your ass you’ll be tasting plastic for weeks.”

“Jeez, fine, okay.” Stiles slaps at Derek’s hands until he lets go of the headphones, then digs his hand into the pocket of his sweats and the music finally, mercifully stops. “What, you have something against upbeat pop music?”

“Stiles, it’s two in the fucking morning.”

Stiles twitches. “Yeah, and apparently you get foul-mouthed after midnight. Guess we shouldn’t feed you either.”

“There’s something really wrong with you,” Derek says and goes to take a shower.

 

 

_Life in plastic, it’s fantastic._

Derek can smell him already this time. Derek is seriously going to murder him. He’s not even halfway through his work out, this isn’t _fair_. Derek will be the first to admit he’s done a lot of things that he’s not so proud of in this life. The whole kanima hell was kind of a low point. Not to mention the thing where his entire family was killed by the girl he thought he loved. Not exactly a high point either.

But he really doesn’t think he’s done something so bad as to deserve this. This is just – this isn’t fair.

_You can brush my hair, undress me everywhere._

Derek groans, finished his rep, and readjusts the tension on the weight machine so it won’t actually kill whoever uses it after him.

_You can touch, you can play, if you say I’m always yours._

The scream when Derek yanks Stiles’ earbuds out of his ears is just as satisfying the second time as it is the first time, if slightly dampened by the fact that Stiles nearly trips and goes flying off the back of the treadmill and is only stopped by Derek grabbing the back of his shirt and slapping the machine off. He does, of course, because he enjoys watching Stiles shout and flail, not watching him break his face and bleed.

“Why are you trying to murder me?” Stiles wheezes, white-knuckling the treadmill handles. “Seriously, _why?_ My heart can’t take this, dude.”

“Why do you listen to music that was made before you were born?” Derek counters.

“I was born,” Stiles says, still gasping for breath. “I mean, I was like three or something, but I was born. Why does it bother you so much?”

Derek rolls his eyes. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because I can hear it and it’s annoying as hell?”

Stiles blinks, and then, slowly, grins. “Really.”

“I will tear your spleen out through your nose,” Derek says. “You think I’m trying to murder you now? _Try me._ ” He glances down at Stiles’ feet. “What’s with the shoes? You’re gonna fuck up your knees.”

Stiles looks from his feet to Derek’s, which, admittedly, aren’t exactly made for the gym. They’re some kind of knock-off Converse and older than he cares to think about – Laura bought them – but he really, really hates shopping and _his_ knees will heal, as Stiles very well knows.

“Don’t be a smart ass,” he says instead of explaining all that. “I’m serious.”

“Of course you are,” Stiles says with a sigh. “Look. These are my normal shoes. So these are the shoes I wear when I run away from the monsters. Therefore I need to be able to _run away_ in these shoes.”

Derek rolls his eyes. “If you blow out your knees at the gym because you wear crappy shoes, you won’t be able to run at all. Wear better shoes and work on your form, or you’re going to hurt yourself. And stop it with the nineties pop,” he says, fighting back the twitch his left eye seems to want to do. He’s not supposed to do things like stress-twitch – his body is supposed to fight that kind of thing off. Figures Stiles would manage to out-annoy his healing.

Screw it. He can run through the woods tonight. He tosses Stiles’ earbuds back at him and turns to get the hell out of Dodge.

“I knew you cared,” Stiles shouts at his back.

Nobody’s around so Derek flips him off over his shoulder.

 

 

This is cruel and unusual.

_Don’t stop, make it pop, DJ, blow my speakers up._

Derek has known Stiles for two and a half years. He’s had his life saved by that idiot more than he ever, ever expected. He once spent _four hours_ in the Camaro on a stakeout with him and the only thing that died was Stiles’ bag of Doritos. (Fake cheese stench in an enclosed space is just not a good thing, okay? Trust him on that one.) He is well aware that Stiles is probably the only reason he’s actually alive to be here, and he doesn’t – he has felt Stiles bleeding out on him and that is not something he wants to experience again.

_And now, the dudes are lining up cause they hear we got swagger, but we kick ‘em to the curb unless they look like Mick Jagger._

But nope, this is where it ends. This is when the kid dies. Strangling isn’t bloody, right? Nice. Quiet. Little bit of oxygen deprivation and _bam_ dead Stiles. No more pop music. Quiet workout.

The stupid thing – besides the fact that Stiles apparently listens to nothing but auto-tuned pop music – is that he’s not even _doing_ anything when Derek stalks over to him. He’s just lying on the weight bench grinning up at Derek.

“Derek, my man,” he says. “Spot me.”

“I’ve seen you. Nobody else is going to ever again, but I’ve seen you.” Derek blinks down at Stiles’ shirt. “Why – why is there a lawn gnome on your shirt?”

“It’s David the Gnome,” Stiles replies like that answers anything.

“It looks like it’s stoned.”

Stiles shrugs. “Could very well be. I mean, did you ever see that show? They ended it with horrible scarring death for the children.”

“I’m going to end you with horrible scarring death.”

Stiles roll his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Can you stop bitching and help me? I’m not any good at this and I’m gonna drop something on my head.”

Derek raises an eyebrow. “You haven’t already? I couldn’t tell the difference.”

Stiles kicks vaguely at him. “C’mon, I’m serious. You know about this shit and you’re here, help me. I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Derek sighs and moves around to the other side of the weight bench. “You could get a personal trainer, you realize. Somebody who actually likes you. Or at least pretends to because you give them money.”

Stiles tips his head back and stares at him, upside down, his eyes stupidly huge as he blinks. “I’m eighteen and I’m going to college in less than two months. What the hell kind of money do you think I have?”

Oh. Shit. Right.

“Sorry,” Derek mutters. “Show me what you’ve been doing.”

His form isn’t terrible, but Derek corrects a few bad habits, then stays because he’s known Stiles for two and a half years and if anyone has a chance of giving themselves a serious head wound lifting weights, it’s him. He once saw the kid slice his arm open on a potato chip.

“What are you doing here so late, anyways?” Stiles asks, huffing a little.

Derek shrugs. “It’s quieter. Or at least it was. What about you?”

“I’m working at the gas station for the summer. Three to midnight. I’m too wound up to sleep after so I switched to doing this at nights.” Stiles blows out a slow breath. “Got a membership for Christmas from my dad.”

“Good for you,” Derek says, rolling his eyes.

“Hey, just because you’re all naturally werewolf-y and buff and stuff doesn’t mean the rest of us are. Some of us have to actually work to look half-decent.”

Derek looks down at him. He’s lean, still too thin after the clusterfuck that was the month before their graduation. His cheekbones are still sharp enough to cut glass, and the circles under his eyes haven’t faded yet. Hopefully he’s actually sleeping again. He doesn’t smell like he’s stuffed to the gills with caffeine like he was a few weeks ago, so that’s probably a good sign. They haven’t talked much in the month since Stiles graduated, but he looks better.

Derek’s doing great at being objective right until his eyes catch on the soft curve of Stiles’ top lip, on the flicker of his stupidly long eyelashes against his cheeks, on the way his hands curve around the barbell.

Oh, he’s so fucked.

Derek clears his throat. “You look fine. Don’t be an idiot.”

 

 

_Once upon a time, a few mistakes ago, I was in your sights, you got me alone._

No. He put up with the Bon Jovi, he put up with the Savage Garden, he put up with the Ke$ha, he put up with the goddamn Justin Bieber. But this, this is too much.

 _I knew you were trouble when you walked in_.

The music stops as Derek walks up to the treadmill where Stiles running, shameless grin plastered across his face.

“Okay, fine, you win,” Derek snaps. “I’ll workout in the mornings or something and you can have the whole gym to yourself. Happy?”

“What?”

“You heard me the first time. It doesn’t matter. You could have just said something,” he says and spins to go back towards the locker room.

A bare few seconds after he stalks in, Stiles is falling through the door, panting, smelling like sweat and, weirdly, like sex and – ugh, maybe it’s a good thing Derek’s switching gym times. There is no way a person is meant to deal with that without going insane. There's probably something wrong with him, really. It's not normal to look at somebody and want to simutaneously press them up against a wall and lick the sweat off their skin... and take them home, cook them their favourite foods, and make sure they sleep. Obviously there's something wrong with him.

“What the hell’s your problem?” Stiles shoves his hand through his hair, leaving it even more bedraggled than usual, which is saying a lot considering it usually looks like a small animal has tried to nest in it. “Seriously, this is what we do. I do something stupid and annoying, you bitch at me, I’m sarcastic back, we bond. What’s wrong with you?”

“What’s wrong with _you_?” Derek shoots back. “You know I can hear it and you know it’s driving me nuts.”

“I know!” Stiles says, flinging his hands in the air. “That’s the point! I always annoy you. It’s what we do. It’s kind of our fucked up version of friendship. You’re bitchy and sarcastic, I’m hyperactive and sarcastic, we’re sarcastic at each other, we both flirt some, and then I go home sexually frustrated but weirdly happy.”

Derek freezes. “Wait – what?”

“I didn’t mean to say that.” Stiles’ eyes go comically wide. “Oh. Oh, shit, you don’t – you aren’t – okay, obviously I have seriously misjudged our interactions here. Oh my God, I’m sorry, I didn’t–”

Kissing him seems to shut Stiles up pretty well. Derek’s kind of disappointed it took him almost three years to figure that out.

“Oh,” Stiles says when Derek pulls back, and he resists the urge to roll his eyes. He should have known the quiet wouldn’t last. “Okay. But you’re still an asshole. Spend two freaking weeks trying to get you to fight with me and you won’t even play along,” Stiles murmurs, leaning in closer. “Just gave up. You always fight back. You’re an asshole, you’re always an asshole with me. S’fun.”

“You’re so weird.” Derek reaches for him, wrapping a hand around the back of Stiles’ head as he walks Stiles backwards, pushes him up against the lockers with a soft clang. “You really, really are. I – I don’t know why I like you.”

Stiles grins suddenly, bright and kind of beautiful. “You like me?”

“For some reason,” Derek says and leans in to kiss him again.

Stiles inhales when their mouths meet, sharp and sudden like he’s actually surprised. It’s illogical and a little endearing and far too _Stiles_ for Derek to resist. He wants to swallow it, wants to take all of Stiles’ little noises and hums and breaths into him, because he’s not usually allowed to have nice things and this is a thing he’d very, very much like to keep. And possibly the thought is a little creepy, but he thinks he’s probably allowed to not be thinking completely rationally when Stiles is sucking on his bottom lip.

“You’re still weird,” Derek mutters, sliding his hand under the hem of Stiles’ T-shirt until he can touch soft, hot skin. “And what’s with the freaking gnome?”

Stiles laughs, tipping his head back against the locker. “I’m the weird one, huh? So fucking fixated on the gnome shirt. You could just take it off me instead of bitching so much.”

Derek’s face goes hot. “We’re in the middle of a gym.”

Stiles catches the hem of his own shirt. “No, we’re in a locker room. After midnight. In Beacon Hills. There’s more of a chance of us getting attacked by supposedly mythological creatures than of us getting caught fooling around in here. Like literally. That’s a thing that happened more often than I’m comfortable with in high school.”

“You know that’s not reassuring, right?”

Stiles shakes his head and pulls his shirt over his head. He starts to lean back against the lockers again and yelps in surprise. “Holy mother of _cold_.”

Derek tries really, really hard not to laugh at him. He’s an asshole, but he hopes he’s not cruel. And he’s honestly surprised by just how… _fond_ he is right now.

Stiles glances past Derek and the only time Derek’s seen that expression before, he ended up with a stolen lawn flamingo in the backseat of the Camaro. He’s still not sure exactly what that was about, except Stiles was high as a fucking kite on pain medication, fresh out of the hospital, and Derek was apparently the only person around to take him home. He’s beginning to wonder if Stiles had done that on purpose. Kid’s a menace, he really is.

He still has that flamingo in the living room, he reminds himself as Stiles slips past him to straddle the locker room bench, because Stiles had freaked out two blocks away about how he couldn’t bring a stolen flamingo home to his dad’s house “because _Sheriff_ , Derek,” but he refused to put it back because apparently they’d get caught and “ _Sheriff,_ Derek,” so it’d ended up in his living room. Because…

“I’m a sucker for you,” Derek says as he sits in front of Stiles. “I mean, you’re still annoying as fuck. But I guess I apparently like that. What was _with_ the nineties pop music?”

Stiles laughs, running his fingers through his hair. “Scott. His mom liked all that stuff when it was out. She doesn’t like sad music. So he listens to it and then somehow I end up with it on my iPod. Probably because we’re somewhat unhealthily co-dependent. What can you do, you know?” Stiles narrows his eyes. “It’s really weird that we’re talking about Scott right now. You got any locker room fantasies going on that we could discuss instead?”

“Stiles.”

“Well, come on.” He catches the sides of the bench, long fingers wrapping around it. “I’m pretty sure you spent more time creeping around in the high school locker room than _I_ did.”

Derek presses his palm to his forehead. “You’re going to give me a headache. I haven’t had one of those stay since Laura was alive. Congratulations.”

“Can’t have that,” Stiles says, corner of his mouth tipping up. “Maybe you should just… lie down and relax.”

Derek feels like it shouldn’t surprise him when Stiles shoves him down onto the bench a second later. He feels like it shouldn’t – and yet it does, surprises a laugh out of him, even, as he rests his arms on the bench over his head.

Stiles follows him down a second later, sliding his hands up underneath Derek’s shirt as he braces a knee on the bench for balance. “I’m gonna touch you everywhere, I hope you realize. Everywhere, even creepy weird places like the back of your knees and your elbows and shit. God, I think I’m attracted to your fucking teeth, how does that even work? C’mon, c’mere, let me kiss you.”

Derek’s never exactly been one for kissing. It’s usually a means to an end, something he does because it’s weird when you don’t.

Stiles, he thinks, has a mouth made for _sin_. He’s not one for metaphors or flowery language, but he thinks it’s truth in this case. And he’s not good with words, doesn’t know how to describe the scrape of Stiles’ teeth over his bottom lip, or the soft exhale of breath against his skin in the second before Stiles coaxes his mouth open, the rasp of Stiles’ palms against his a second later, or the way he can’t seem to keep his eyes open no matter how hard he tries, no matter how much he just wants to _look_ at Stiles. Doesn’t know how to explain them, no, but _wants_ them more than he’s wanted anything in years.

“Want you, too,” Stiles mumbles, pressing his mouth, open and hot, to the side of Derek’s throat. “I – God, hold still.”

Stiles closes his fingers in Derek’s hair and tugs. Not hard, but Derek tilts his head back against the pressure and groans softly. That – that is a thing, apparently.

“Yeah,” Stiles says and licks a stripe up the side of his throat. The scrape of his teeth is a surprise, but it’s good and, yeah, he could get used to this. “Can I – um – can I try something?”

“Sure, yeah, whatever you want,” Derek says, squeezing Stiles’ fingers.

“Okay.” Stiles leans up and kisses him again, slow and long, before pulling his hands away. “Okay. Just… I haven’t done this so don’t judge me too harshly if it sucks.” He pauses for a second and snorts. “Heh, sucks.”

Derek stares at the ceiling of the locker room, shakes his head. “Remind me again, why am I fooling around with someone with the humour of a frigging twelve old?”

“I smell good?” Stiles licks across Derek’s nipple, tongue warm and wet. Derek shifts restlessly, reaching down to curl his fingers around Stiles’ ear. “You like my eyes?” he adds, slipping his fingertips under the waistband of Derek’s sweats. “Or, I don’t know, I’ve heard things about my mouth.”

“Yeah, probably something like that,” Derek manages to get out as Stiles tugs down his sweats. “I – yeah.”

Stiles hums around him and sinks a little lower down onto him. Derek inhales, clenching the muscles in his thighs to keep from arching up because he’s not _always_ an asshole and he doesn’t want to – because as much of an oral fixation Stiles has, he’s never done this before and holy crap, Derek’s inner voice is starting to sound like him. He’s going insane.

“Your mouth used to drive me crazy,” Derek says hoarsely, skimming his fingertips carefully down the back of Stiles’ neck. He's not trying to pressure Stiles or anything, he just wants to touch him anywhere he can. “You were so off-limits, but you were – you were always putting stuff in your mouth. A-almost killed me that time – that time with the harpy.”

Derek drops his head back with a groan after that, giving up on the whole “speaking” thing for a while. Obviously it’s just not going to happen.

Not with Stiles’ mouth sliding up and down on his cock, long fingers wrapped around the base and what doesn’t fit. Not with the soft suction, the way his tongue swirls around the head of Derek’s cock, the way his other hand braces against Derek’s stomach, firm and solid like a kind of anchor, as everything in Derek turns hot and bright and frantic.

“Hey.” He catches Stiles by the shoulder, squeezing for a second before he trails his thumb up the curve of Stiles’ neck. “I’m close. You don’t have to swallow.”

Stiles pulls off enough to talk, swiping the back of his hand across his red, prettily swollen mouth. “Do you – I kind of want to try. Do you want to come in my mouth?”

Derek huffs out a shaky laugh. “Seriously?”

“Okay, dumb question,” Stiles admits with a snort and bends down again.

Derek closes his eyes and tries not to have a heart attack. He’s pretty sure he can have one of those. He had a cold once when he was ten. He could totally have a – a heart attack. He’s not a – he’s not great when it comes to biology, but that’s, that’s a thing and –

“Oh, fuck,” he groans and comes, his face buried in the bend of his elbow to muffle any noise.

And then Stiles chokes, flails backwards and tips the bench sideways.

Derek curses and tries to grab him in the split second before they hit the floor, but it’s not a particularly high bench and he’s a bit punch-drunk from his orgasm still, and he only has time to get himself partially underneath Stiles before they both crash into the ground.

“Oh my God.” Stiles shoves his face into Derek’s chest. “I can’t believe I just did that, oh my God.”

“You okay?” Derek asks, running a hand down over Stiles’ back and hip where he landed on them. “You’re not hurt, right?”

“My pride’s got big ass dent in it,” Stiles mutters. “I’m fine.”

“Okay.” He catches Stiles under the jaw, lifts his face, and kisses him because Stiles is blushing like crazy, because Stiles’ mouth is red and swollen and kind of obscene, because he can _taste_ himself on Stiles’ tongue. When he pulls back, he presses his thumb to the corner of Stiles’ mouth and tries not to appear as completely fucking dazed as he feels. “We should probably, uh, get out of here before we get kicked out.” He inhales, stupidly nervous. “You could come home with me? Isaac’s not gonna be home tonight.”

Stiles grins. “Yeah, okay. Honestly, I really don’t need to be arrested for public indecency. By my father. Oh dear God, I didn’t need that image.” He makes a face and looks down at his lap. “And there goes Mr. Happy.”

“You named your dick Mr. Happy,” Derek says flatly. “Are you serious.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “What’s yours, then, the loup-garou?”

Derek shakes his head. “It’s amazing you manage to dress yourself.”

“Says the guy with his dick still hanging out.”

Derek pulls his sweats back into place, stands up and stretches, slowly. Mostly because Stiles _watches_ and that – that’s just kind of fun. He hasn’t been in the position to… to tease somebody in years.

“Well,” he says as he holds out a hand. “You can either stay there on the floor, and keep making fun of my dick, or I could take you home and ride yours.”

Derek has known Stiles for two and half years. He’s never seen him move that fast before and that’s including that time with the harpy.

He grins and leans in to kiss Stiles again before he goes to get his stuff. Yeah. This could be a thing he gets used to, he thinks, as he bends over to grab his bag off the floor.

“Baby, you light up my world like nobody else,” Stiles warbles suddenly and smacks Derek on the ass.

Derek straightens and glares at him. “You’re not fucking funny.”

“You don’t know you’re beautiful,” Stiles replies, then bolts when Derek lunges for him.

**Author's Note:**

> The language consists of the casual use of the words crazy/insane and the like. I've been trying to cut words like that out of my vocabulary. I don't swear either, so death of the author and all, but I think it's only fair to mention that to you guys.
> 
> Oh, I suppose I should put a list of the songs Stiles listens to, huh? 
> 
> MmmBop - Hanson  
> Barbie Girl - Aqua  
> Tik Tok - Ke$ha  
> I Knew You Were Trouble - Taylor Swift  
> And he quotes What Makes You Beautiful by One Direction.


End file.
